


If you desire healing, let yourself fall ill

by AlineRusu



Series: How to Heal the Unknown Wound [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crime Scenes, Cutting, Dissociation, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flashbacks, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, This Was Written As A Coping Mechanism, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23923180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlineRusu/pseuds/AlineRusu
Summary: ***This work is abandoned***A continuation of Alone Isn't the Only Answer.In which Sherlock continues to deal with past trauma and the resulting emotional repercussions.The title is from a poem by Rumi.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: How to Heal the Unknown Wound [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724479
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Self-harm, Sexual Assault/Rape, Abusive Relationships, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Dissociation/Depersonalization, Flashbacks, Emotional Abuse/Manipulation, Sexual Manipulation
> 
> Please be kind. This project is mainly a way for me to work through my own trauma. All the things that happened in Sherlock's past in this story have happened to me, so please avoid glib comments. That being said, I do enjoy writing, so I appreciate any feedback you may have.
> 
> I am not British, so please excuse any Americanisms.  
> In addition, this has not been proof-read by anyone, so please excuse any grammatical issues.

It had been several weeks since the Incident, as John had privately begun calling it. Sherlock was doing better, at least outwardly. Even though he had been granted unprecedented access to the genius’s brain in the time since, John still could barely hazard a guess at what was going on in Sherlock’s mind.

Their relationship hadn’t changed all that much. John still chased Sherlock around as he solved crimes. Sherlock still routinely demanded unreasonable tasks from John like fetching his mobile from the next room. Really, the only difference was the occasional gentle touch between the two flatmates: the soft brush of fingers on a shoulder, a tender kiss on the way to bed, a careful grasp of a hand as they sat on the sofa after a chase.

John was okay with this. He knew that Sherlock needed time to adjust to the new nature of their bond. What worried him was Sherlock’s overall reticence. Though cases continued and insults flowed, the partners took only around half of their normal workload and Sherlock spent much of his time taciturn. John would sometimes walk in on him standing at the kitchen table by the microscope, staring off into space with a slack look on his face. When he saw this, John would bustle around in the kitchen making tea or getting some biscuits, trying to pull Sherlock’s attention away from whatever was troubling him.

Sherlock, of course, insisted nothing was wrong. He became fairly hostile whenever John brought it up. It was beginning to get to him. The doctor knew from his own experience that such an intense PTSD flare could have repercussions lasting a couple weeks, but it was already well past John’s estimate for recovery and not much had changed.

John was laying in bed pondering this late one night after returning home from the surgery to find Sherlock sitting on the couch staring off into space.

_“Damn that man. I don’t know what to do anymore,”_ he thought. _“I can’t help him if he doesn’t let me, and I’m_ sure _that he’s still having nightmares.”_

Sherlock didn’t yell during his nightmares, but sometimes John would wake up in the middle of the night to the whistle of the tea kettle and soft, trembling notes on the violin. At these times, John wished desperately that he could go downstairs and comfort his friend, but the few times he tried, Sherlock refused to make eye contact and quickly retreated to his bedroom without speaking.

The day had been a complicated one. Sherlock was irritable in the morning, snapping at John more than usual, and refusing to eat the toast John had made for him. He had been silent since John had gotten home that evening, and had gone to bed early for the third day in a row. Coming from the man who would often go days without sleep, this was unusual.

The older man tried to keep an eye out for any signs of fresh injuries but had so far come up empty. He hoped this was a good thing and not just a failure of his lacking observational skills.

Eventually he gave up his worrying and settled down for a good night’s sleep.

* * *

Sherlock was in bed. It seemed to be where he spent most of his time nowadays. Bed was safe. His duvet and pillows muffled his tossing and turning and the walls silenced his quiet sounds of fear and anxiety and pain. In bed he could ride out the near constant imagined sounds and images that plagued his waking hours and the terrors that haunted his dreams. A day rarely went by when he didn’t see or hear something that wasn’t there at least once, and a full night’s sleep was a thing of the past.

He didn’t know why these things were still affecting him so. He had never had an experience like this before, although the event precipitating these symptoms had happened so very long ago. Usually he was able to shove the memories, the _emotions_ away before they caused him any great difficulty, but this time it seemed that was impossible. Five weeks and… how many days? He couldn’t remember. His mind was too full of the past to be aware of the present. John tried to help but Sherlock kept insisting everything was fine.

John.

It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t want John’s company. He just didn’t want John’s worry, or worse yet, his pity. He knew that was a stupid thing to fear. John had dealt with PTSD ever since he came back from Afghanistan, but he had never been _used_ in the way that was slowly destroying the genius.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” he quietly berated himself. This mantra of self-loathing was an almost nightly ritual by this point, giving voice to the anger and fear he felt. The entire situation was hateful. _He_ was hateful. Not only did his body betray him on a regular basis with shuddering breaths and hands that shook so much he couldn’t even play the violin, but his mind had denounced him too and that was something with which he just couldn’t cope. He needed something to ground him, something to clear his mind of the raging emotions clouding his thoughts. He looked around for his mechanical pencil.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to self-harm

He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. What would John say if he found out? The day after John had found him sitting on the edge of his bed, knife in hand, the doctor had made Sherlock promise to come to him if he felt the need to cut. Sherlock had promised, but privately he didn’t think he could do it. He trusted John, but he was ashamed. Ashamed of this weakness, this vice, that had once again taken over his life.

Sherlock had so far managed to limit himself to bruising his arms and occasionally punching a wall. He hadn’t totally broken his promise. He hadn’t cut. The lies wrapped in technicalities were always covered by his long sleeved dress shirts and flowing dressing gowns. He knew John hadn’t seen them. He knew too, that John worried.

Holding the pencil in shaking hands, he hovered over his left arm trying to work up the nerve to do it.

“No,” he whispered. He couldn’t do this to John. He had promised. He didn’t drop the pencil, but he stood and slowly went up to John’s door. They hadn’t slept in the same bed since that first night but right now Sherlock needed the closeness of laying next to his partner. He hesitated at the door, leaning his forehead against the smooth wood. His hand was clenched tightly around the pencil. This was his last chance to cause the pain that would clear his mind.

He stood and shook his head vigorously. It wasn’t an option. He knocked on the door.

* * *

John was almost asleep when he heard a knock at his door. It was soft and uncertain and that worried the doctor. Sherlock wasn’t the type to be shy about waking him up. Not a case then. He got up and opened the door to find the detective standing in the hallway, shoulders slouched and hand grasped tightly around something.

“Sherlock, hey. Everything all right?” he asked, immediately regretting asking such a stupid question.

The taller man didn’t say anything, continuing to stare at the ground.

John laid a gentle hand on the detective’s arm. Sherlock was trembling. “Why don’t you come in and sit with me a while?”

Apparently this permission was what Sherlock had been waiting for; he took a step forward and collapsed into John, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks.

The doctor caught him as he fell and sank to the floor, his love cradled in his arms. “Hey now, it’s all right. I’m here.” John continued to whisper reassurances and stroke the man’s dark hair as he took stock of the situation. He began to create a list of facts as Sherlock had taught him.

Fact 1: Sherlock had come to his room late at night.

Fact 2: Sherlock was currently crying in John’s arms.

Fact 3: Sherlock had had a severe PTSD flare about five weeks ago.

Fact 4: Sherlock hadn’t been acting normal (or what passed for it in Sherlock Holmes) since.

Fact 5: John had absolutely no idea what to do.

_‘Okay,’_ he thought. _‘That last one is unhelpful. You’re a doctor for God’s sake. He’s just a patient.’_

This, of course, was not strictly true. Sherlock was so much more than that. John had discovered that he struggled with detaching himself emotionally when trying to care for his flatmate. Then again, maybe that was a good thing right now. He updated his list.

Fact 5 (Updated): John loved Sherlock and would do anything he could to help him. Even if he didn’t know exactly what _would_ help at the moment.

John remembered the clenched fist and reached for the detective’s hand. “Darling, open your hand.”

Sherlock’s fingers loosened and revealed a mechanical pencil. It wasn’t what the older man had expected. “What’s this?” He carefully took the pencil from his hand. The man in his arms just shuddered and cried, shrinking in on himself. John put the pencil on the floor as far away from Sherlock as possible.

They sat on the floor together, John murmuring soothing words into Sherlock’s hair and rubbing his back as Sherlock slowly calmed down enough to heave a few shuddering breaths and look up at the man holding him.

“John, I’m sorry,” the detective whispered, tears still trailing down his face.

“What for, darling?”

“I… I almost…” He glanced at the pencil and the words began to flood out. “I wanted to, but I knew you’d be disappointed. I wasn’t going to do much, just enough to clear the fog. I wasn’t even going to use a blade, just the pencil, but I knew it would upset you, but here I am now upsetting you anyway. God, this is hateful. _I’m_ hateful. I’m worthless. What am I without my mind? I- I- I—” His breath started coming a bit faster.

“There, love, let’s go to the bed. Think you can stand?” asked John, tenderly.

Sherlock nodded, so John helped him up and supported him as they made their way to the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Referenced Self-harm

John was worried that his friend was going to start panicking, so he rested his hands on the other man’s, twining their fingers together and speaking calmly. “Dear, look at me, all right?”

Sherlock turned his eyes up to the doctor’s face.

“You’ve got to breathe more slowly or you’re going to start hyperventilating. Breathe with me, okay?” He began to make his breathing obvious and deep so Sherlock could follow along. It didn’t take long, thankfully, for breaths to come more slowly once again.

Once Sherlock was breathing normally, John started speaking again, pulling him into a hug as he did.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock. You did exactly what you said you would. You came to me when you needed help, and that’s all I can ask of you.” He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, continuing his calming ministrations.

“I didn’t though. I didn’t cut,” his voice caught as he said the word, “but I still did things I’m not proud of. Things you’ll be disappointed by.”

John was only able to hide his sudden worry because of his military training. “What do you mean, darling?”

Sherlock sat up out of the embrace and slowly rolled up the sleeves of his blue dressing gown, revealing pale forearms covered in blue and purple splotches. Some were fading to green or yellow and some were only a day or so old. Refusing to look John in the eye, he turned his hands over so John could see the broken skin on his knuckles from punching concrete.

John’s heart did flips as he tried to navigate the combination of relief and sadness that welled up inside of him as he took the thin, long arms in his hands and inspected the self-inflicted injuries. He tried to think of what to say that couldn’t be twisted by Sherlock’s mind into something negative. Eventually, he spoke. “Sherlock, I’m glad you told me. I’m not disappointed. I wish you had come to me earlier, sure, but I’m not disappointed. I’m not angry.”

“But you’re still upset.” A statement, not a question.

“Well yeah, but not like you think. I’m sad because the one person who means the most to me in the world is hurting, and I wish I could turn back time to help sooner. But that doesn’t matter, because I can help you _now_. Starting with this.” John bent down and pressed his lips gently to Sherlock’s battered arm.

Sherlock looked baffled. “Why… Why did you do that?”

“Sentiment, love. Bloody sentiment, what else?” John kissed another bruise.

“But… Those are proof that I failed. That I’m not worth your affection and sentiment.”

“No, dear, they’re proof that you were brave and strong enough to come to me, even if it took a little while.” With one more kiss, the doctor in him couldn’t help asking, “Would you let me put some arnica on those bruises? They look painful.” Sherlock nodded and John went over to his bureau where he kept the first aid kit.

As he once again tended to the taller man’s wounds, John thought about what to do next. Obviously leaving Sherlock alone wasn’t really an option at the moment. The man really needed some sleep, but knowing him, he’d probably force himself to stay awake to avoid a nightmare if John was in the room with him. John decided on a plan of action.

“Care for a cup of tea, love?” He stood and stretched a hand out to Sherlock.

The other man nodded, took the offered hand, and followed John downstairs to the kitchen.

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t figure out why John was being so kind to him. _Sentiment_ , he supposed. John shouldn’t have to put up with this, but Sherlock was going along with it anyway. Just another way he was weak. It isn’t John’s job to take care of Sherlock. Sherlock is the fixer, never the one needing to be fixed.

To that end, the detective made sure he got to the kitchen first and headed over to the stove to put the kettle on.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

John’s voice held no anger, but the words were accusatory. _Great,_ thought Sherlock. _I’ve made him upset again. I don’t know what I did wrong this time._ He tried to hid his anxiety behind a mask of emotionlessness as he glanced over in John’s direction.

“I’m… making tea. Obviously.” He tried to put as much of his usual (old) snap into his voice, but it just came out sounding tired and uncertain.

“I’ll have none of that,” scolded John. “I’m making you tea, and you’re going to sit on the sofa and relax while I spoil you.” Sherlock could see that the shorter man was smiling, though it was a slightly anxious smile.

He put down the kettle and retreated to the sofa, not wanting to upset John further. He thought about what he should do to improve the situation. He knew that any time now, John would finally get fed up with Sherlock’s complaining and put him back in his place. There were ways that could be prevented. He didn’t want to do it, not like this, but if it would prevent John from getting angry with him then there was nothing for it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Small about of sexual content in this chapter.  
> TW: Fallout from past abuse/unhealthy thought processes created by past abuse

John entered the sitting room with a teapot and two teacups on a tray belonging to Mrs. Hudson. As he placed the tray on the coffee table, he glanced over at his friend who was sitting back on the sofa, trying much too hard to look relaxed. The doctor planned on keeping Sherlock up for a bit until he seemed calm enough to sleep, and then trick him into sleeping in the same room. Somehow. He wasn’t completely clear on that part of the plan yet. Sherlock was looking at him, a slightly strange look in his eyes.

“Here, darling,” said John, offering Sherlock a cup.

The detective took the cup from him without a word, and they sat together in silence for a while, sipping their beverages. After a time, Sherlock set down his teacup and turned to John.

“Thank you, John.”

John was surprised. Although Sherlock had been making a somewhat more concerted effort to be considerate towards the doctor, ‘thank you’ was still an uncommon phrase. “What for?” he asked, hoping to get Sherlock to talk about what was troubling him.

“Oh, you know,” he said, waving his hand vaguely and sliding a bit closer to John. “For everything. The tea, being kind, putting up with me.”

By this point their thighs were touching on the couch. John was beginning to wonder what his companion was really trying to say.

Sherlock carefully took the teacup from John’s hands and placed it on the table.

“Sherlock, what’re you—”

“Be quiet, for once, would you?” The taller man leaned in slowly, curly hair hanging into his eyes, and gently kissed John on the mouth.

John tried to pull back, surprised, but Sherlock brought his hand up to the back of his head, twining his fingers in John’s greying blond hair and deepening the kiss, gently biting the doctor’s lower lip. John couldn’t help it. He moaned quietly, kissing back.

“Don’t fight it. Let me thank you,” whispered Sherlock, lips still pressed lightly against his own.

John was breathing heavily already, and when Sherlock started kissing him again, he couldn’t bite back the whimper that bubbled up in his throat at the feeling. He felt Sherlock’s tongue brush his lips and he parted them.

After a minute or so more of (rather passionate) kissing, John suddenly found himself being pulled onto Sherlock, straddling his lap, with Sherlock’s hands on his arse. They had never done anything like this before, and John was somewhat surprised, but altogether too aroused to argue with it. He involuntarily began to grind lightly into the detective’s lap as they kissed, fingering the hem of Sherlock’s simple white t-shirt.

Sherlock pulled back briefly, slipped his arms from his dressing gown, and pulled his shirt over his head before going back to kissing.

John was filled with more hedonistic pleasure than he’d ever experienced before, and he slowly kissed down Sherlock’s jawline until he reached the hollow behind his ear, then began down his neck, grinding harder against him for a bit of relief. As he kissed his pulse point, he felt the detective’s excessively rapid heart rate and pulled back.

“W-why’d you stop?” asked the younger man, voice quavering.

John studied Sherlock’s face carefully. For the first time, he noticed the pallor of the man’s skin; the sheen of sweat on his face, the rapid but shallow breathing, the well disguised but not completely hidden fear in the blue-grey eyes, the trembling hands.

“Sherlock,” he began with concern, “do you really want this?”

“Of— of course I do.”

“Don’t just say that, Sherlock. Be truthful with me.”

“I… I want you to be happy. I want to please you.” The tremble in the man’s hands was quickly becoming a full-body shaking.

“Sherlock, darling…” John climbed off his love’s lap and kneeled on the floor by Sherlock’s feet, reaching out to take his hands in his own. “You do please me, even without sex. If this makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to do it right now. Not ever, if you don’t want to.” Sherlock was definitely quite a ways on towards a full-blown panic attack, the first since The Incident.

“But,” he said, throwing words out jerkily through the hyperventilation, “but you… you like sex. You c-can’t argue that you d-d-don’t.” He glanced meaningfully at the bulge visible through John’s sweatpants.

“Yeah, but part of what makes it fun is having both parties equally invested in the whole process. I don’t want you to force yourself to have sex with me if you don’t want to.” He tried to find the right words. “It’s… it’s sort of like when you’re on a case. You know how you were saying, just the other day, that it’s more fun for you when I’m enjoying myself too?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Well, it’s like that, but more. I only want it if you want it too.”

For a while, the only answer was too-quick breathing. Eventually, Sherlock spoke. “I-I thought that it would k-keep you from g-g-getting angry with me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 from Sherlock's perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Unhealthy behaviors created by abuse, Flashbacks, sort of non-consentual happenings

Sherlock breathed in sharply as John entered the room. For a moment, he thought the person coming in from the kitchen was much taller. Taller even than himself. Tall, and thin, and gangly, and dark haired… But then it was John again. John who was shorter than Sherlock. John who was stocky and well muscled. John who had blond hair with a few streaks of grey running through it. It only alleviated a portion of his anxiety.

Sherlock hadn’t wanted their first sexual encounter to go like this. But, he supposed, he shouldn’t have expected anything different. In a relationship, Sherlock’s purpose was to keep the other person happy and assuage any anger that might be directed at him before things got out of hand.

From somewhere deep within his mind palace the logical part of his brain was screaming at him that this wasn’t true and that John really did want to take care of him. Unfortunately, that part of his brain hadn’t been in control for weeks.

“Here, darling,” Sherlock took the proffered cup and drank in silence, trying to work up his nerve. Finally, he put his cup down.

“Thank you, John.” The first step. Express that you appreciate the other person’s efforts.

John looked confused. “What for?” he asked. Shit. Sherlock had hoped that the thanks, still an unusual occurrence with him, would mollify John enough not to need the rest of the plan. Guess not.

Sherlock spoke vaguely as he slid carefully closer to the man beside him. “Oh, you know. For everything. The tea, being kind, putting up with me.” Sherlock made a conscious effort not to flinch as their legs touched. He reached out and took John’s cup from him, setting down on the coffee table.

“Sherlock, what’re you—”

The detective interrupted, trying desperately to stem the anger he knew would follow that question. “Be quiet, for once, would you?” He kissed John on the lips. Reaching to take hold of the blond hair, he deepened the kiss, preventing John from pulling away. He bit the doctor’s lower lip lightly as he pulled away, eliciting a low groan from the man.

Sherlock’s vision started to blur. He had to hold on, had to keep going, if he wanted to be safe. This would happen regardless, better that it was on his terms. “Don’t fight it. Let me thank you,” he spoke against his partner’s lips.

John’s breath was heavy and ragged. Was it John? It had been a minute ago. Something about that breathing… Sherlock opened his eyes and saw a long, thin face, framed by lank dark brown hair. His heart raced. He had to keep him happy. This would be so much worse for him if he didn’t. Kai had told him as much the last time they talked.

Sherlock kissed him, trying to be as passionate as possible. The dark haired man moaned into the kisses, opening his mouth to grant Sherlock’s tongue entrance. He smelled like a farm. Dust, and cut grass, and horses. For some reason, that made the now-shorter man’s heart start pounding even harder.

Knowing he had to keep things interesting or reap the consequences, he pulled Kai into his lap and reached around to clasp the man’s arse. Better for Kai to be in the dominant position. Almost immediately, he felt hips grinding into him and a very hard object pressing towards his stomach. Fingers were teasing at the hem of his sleep shirt. God, he didn’t want to do that… But needs must when the devil drives. He leaned back and took off his dressing gown and shirt with trembling hands before going back to kissing.

The man above him began to kiss down Sherlock’s neck. _Here we go,_ he thought.

Suddenly though, as Kai reached his pulse point, the kisses ceased. “W-why’d you stop?” asked Sherlock, scared for what would come next. He was sure he’d done something wrong. He usually had.

“Sherlock, do you really want this?”

Well that was unexpected. Sherlock’s vision blurred again and his hearing seemed to warp. “Of— of course I do.” He inhaled sharply, trying to get things back into focus. His breathing didn’t want to cooperate, insisting on remaining fast and shallow.

“Don’t just say that, Sherlock. Be truthful with me.”

Kai was using his name. Kai didn’t use Sherlock’s name. He managed a slightly deeper breath and looked up at the person on top of him. Blond hair. Kai had dark brown hair that bordered on black. Why was this hair blond? Why was he being asked what _he_ wanted? Was this a new way for Kai to make Sherlock feel worthless?

Attempting to stave off this new mode of attack, he tried to equivocate. “I… I want you to be happy. I want to please you.” His trembling had begun to increase to more of a full blown shake. He was letting him down. He wouldn’t be able to please him.

The blond man slid off his lap and knelt on the floor. “Sherlock, darling… You do please me, even without sex. If this makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to do it right now. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock blinked several times. John. This was John, not Kai. He was in their flat at 221b and the smells that surrounded him were those of the city and old furniture, not country living and livestock. Though this should have reassured him, Sherlock shook even harder and began to hyperventilate in earnest.

Even with this realization, Sherlock needed to maintain the proper order of things. That meant keeping John happy. “But… but you… you like sex. You c-can’t argue that you d-d-don’t.” Jesus, he was stuttering now. What a miserable excuse for a genius he was. As he spoke, he looked down at Kai’s, no, _John’s_ trousers. They were tented up by… Sherlock didn’t want to think of why they were like that.

John looked at him with an expression that was a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Yeah, but part of what makes it fun is having both parties equally invested in the whole process. I don’t want you to force yourself to have sex with me if you don’t want to.” He paused for a moment before going on to compare sex to cases.

After a moment of confused contemplation, Sherlock nodded. It was all he could do to keep from passing out or vomiting. He was in the full throes of panic now, shaking and hyperventilating, sweating and convulsing. Finally, he was able to force out a few stuttering words. “I-I thought that it would k-keep you from g-g-getting angry with me.”


End file.
